Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/164

26 No more then she the stars con'd number, Yett loth this wretched course to follow For once resolv'd to move Apollo. Misled by Him and his vain Rabble, To try his Curtesie and Stable She then implor'd that for this time And to be sure she sue'd in Rime That he his Chariot wou'd but spare her Which in a moment home might bear her Scarse miss'd by him or his nine lasses. But he reply'd she'd break the Glasses, That late he saw such Fate attend her And vow'd that his he n'ere wou'd lend her That fitter 'twere she took the air Like Country Doll to neighb'ring Faire Like harvest Gill or stroling Player For he'd not bear the World's reproaches If Poets were allow'd their Coaches Who spar'd on foot (with empty Purses) Nor Prince nor Prelat in their verses That Homer poor his spite to smother Made fighting Fooles revile each other Who had he but been back'd with Pelf He had call'd Dogs and Rogues himself Lampoon'd Queen Hellens well sung Flame And giv'n Her but her coarsest Name For which good cause and more 'twas hinted The Tribe shou'd be kept bare and stinted Shou'd eat by manners and good Nature Or starve on Epigram and Satir. She finding him thus hott proceed Desir'd then but his winged steed But he reply'd 'twou'd much disgrace him To lett a female rider pace him